


CTRL ALT DELETE

by 221Bme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Memory, Silly, deleting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:51:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bme/pseuds/221Bme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock deletes lots of things from his mind. But can he ever get them back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	CTRL ALT DELETE

The light was starting to fade in the living room as the sun sank below the grimy horizon outside. Almost six hours ago John had gone out to the shop and bought groceries, with no help, and then he'd come back and put them all away, with no help, and now he'd finished his latest blog entry and was busy making dinner— _with no help._

_Of course._

"Sherlock, are you going to want any of this?" He leaned out of the kitchen and gave the detective on the sofa a pointed look. "Have you even  _moved_  since I went out?"

When no answer came John rolled his eyes and went back to the kitchen. Earlier that morning Sherlock had mentioned something about 'doing a little housekeeping', which obviously meant in his mind palace, because why would Sherlock ever do any  _real_  cleaning? In the  _real_  flat. The one they  _really_  shared.

_Typical._

He was probably busy deleting some 'useless' things John had said to him last week, or some unimportant story the poor barista at the cafe had shared, unknowing how completely boring she was to the most intelligent man in London.

John sighed and shook his head, stirring the pasta sauce aggressively. Perhaps a little too aggressively, considering that a good amount of it splashed out and landed on his hand, sending him hurrying over to the sink, cursing and flapping his hand until he got it under cold water.

Something landed in his hair from behind him. He almost didn't notice, until another volley of little paper bits came flying over and showered down onto his shoulders and hair. One got in the sink.

He turned around and glared at him. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing now?"

Sherlock stopped throwing paper, now that he'd gained John's attention. He was sitting up—for the first time that day—and his eyes were wide.

"What?" John finally switched off the sink and stood there nursing his burned fingers impatiently. "I'm listening already. Spit it out."

Well, this was certainly unlike him. He obviously had something important in mind, and normally he'd be bursting to tell someone, John usually being the one nearest. But now he just sat there, lips parted and a funny expression on his face, a mix between alarm and frustration.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

He took a deep breath and parted his lips again—but no sound came out. His brow furrowed and he tried again, and again, but with the same result every time.

His fists clenched, and he looked up at John with an intense stare that seemed to be trying to tell him something, but…

"Er, can you talk?" John walked over to the sofa, tilting his head. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock continued staring at him, and gestured fervently toward his throat and lips, but still made no sound.

_Very helpful._

"Did you lose your voice? Do you have a cold, maybe?"

_That would make sense. Good job, John._

But Sherlock shook his head quickly and tapped on his temple, widening his eyes meaningfully.

"You… don't remember?" John was encouraged by the look on Sherlock's face at this. "Um, you mean you don't remember what happened?"

_Forget being encouraged._

Sherlock threw up his hands in desperation and shook his head forcefully.

_No, no, no._

"Okay, look—here's my mobile. Write it out." John pulled his cell phone from his pocket and handed it to the detective, who looked at it for a few seconds before switching it on and beginning to type feverishly.

He held it up for John to see, simultaneously giving him a pointed look. The little black letters read, in all caps, "I DELETED IT."

"You deleted… what exactly?"

Sherlock gestured to his lips again, attempting to speak but with no results.

"Oh." John stood there, lamely staring at the mobile for a minute. "Well."

Was that really even possible?

Deleting your ability to speak?

Sherlock mouthed something that perhaps almost made it a good thing that he couldn't actually verbalize, for once.

_Almost._


End file.
